


Your Hands on Me

by Emela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Belly Rubs, Drugged Derek, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3406565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emela/pseuds/Emela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Can you rub my belly?” he asked seriously.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“Excuse me?” Stiles’ eyes widened.<em></em></em>
  <br/>
  <em>“Can you rub my belly,” he said again, face still serious. “But maybe without making any dog jokes? I just…I feel like I need it and…and I don’t want to ask anyone else.”<em></em></em>
</p><p>OR</p><p>The one where Derek gets drugged and just wants Stiles to touch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Hands on Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yaoigirl15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaoigirl15/gifts).
  * Translation into Français available: [Tes mains sur moi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029070) by [Lena_221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena_221b/pseuds/Lena_221b)



> Just a silly fic I wrote taking a break from uni work. 
> 
> For sterek89 who I promised some good ol' fashioned Sterek belly rubs.

There was a knocking at Stiles’ window. A knock which he was fully prepared to ignore. He deserved sleep, okay? He had just researched his ass off for three days straight to help the pack track down that stupid Incubus, and now he was going to get the rest he deserved. Whoever needed him could wait until the morning.

Unfortunately, because this was _Stiles’_ life, the knocking only grew louder and more persistent, and Stiles really didn’t like the idea of his Dad greeting whoever was outside. “Just come in,” he mumbled into his pillow. They would hear him. Stiles was under no delusions whoever it was didn't have  _very_ good hearing.

He wasn't sure what he expected, but it definitely wasn't two hundred pounds of leather and muscle sitting across from him on the floor. Not that Derek barging into his room was all that uncommon, but well, that was just it- he _barged._ Derek didn’t have the good grace to knock. Not when it came to Stiles anyway.

“Uh, can I help you?” Stiles asked, lifting his head to stare at him. There was something off about him, he noticed. His posture was considerably softer and the scowl that Stiles had convinced himself was as permanent as the rest of Derek's face was nowhere in sight. In fact, he was _smiling._ Honest to god, smiling.

“I wanted to see you,” Derek said, like Stiles was stupid for not coming to this conclusion immediately.

Stiles frowned. “Is there something wrong?”

Derek sighed. “Why do you always assume there is something wrong?” He looked genuinely put out, and Stiles had to bite back a laugh because Derek looked far more like a petulant child than a put-upon twenty-something. If he thought Derek wouldn't kill him for taking a picture, he'd try and reach for his phone. 

“Okay, big guy,” Stiles said, throwing back the covers- his nice, warm covers (never say he wasn’t selfless sometimes) - and sat down opposite Derek. Derek, who’s whole face lit up at the action. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but strangely pleasant as well; doing things to Stiles’ head he wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable with. “What happened?”

“I pissed off a fairy and she-” Derek waggled his fingers. “Fingers are weird,” he whispered, holding them up for Stiles to see, scrunching up his face.

“Oh my god,” Stiles exclaimed, eyes widening. “Are you _drugged_?”

Derek shrugged, leaning in to Stiles’ space. Stiles could feel his breath ghosting his lips, sweet and warm, making his eyes flutter. “You have nice fingers,” Derek said.

“Uh, thanks?” Stiles didn’t know whether he should call Deaton. Ethically speaking, calling would be the right thing to do, but Stiles couldn’t help but be riveted by this Derek. A Derek who _complimented_ and knew how to use his facial muscles to produce something beyond a smirk.

“Really nice,” Derek went on. “I think about them a lot. What they would feel like on me.”

Wait.

What?

“Oh god,” he muttered, scrubbing one hand down his face, trying to ignore the fact the blood was rushing to all the  _wrong_ places in his body. Would it be inappropriate to leave Derek on his own while he went and took a cold shower? What was the etiquette for drugged werewolf frenemies?

“Stiles,” Derek whispered, looking around as if he was expecting someone to be listening in.

Stiles couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face, despite himself, wanting nothing more than to play along. There was probably a special place in hell for people like him, but, fuck, he just _couldn't_ pass up this chance. He would never forgive himself. “Yes, Derek?” he asked, his eyes wide, cupping the side of his face. Derek’s eyes danced in response, making him look all of five years old. It was freaking _adorable._

“Would you do me a favour?”

“Sure, buddy.”

Derek bit his lip, averting his gaze briefly. “It involves your hands.”

“Oh?”

_Oh._

Oh, no.

Nope.

No.

_No._

“Ah,” Stiles said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m flattered, but I don’t think I could do that, you know, morally speaking? Not while you’re drugged, anyway.” Plus, he was _extremely_  certain that Derek asking him to use his hands in _any_ capacity was purely the drugs talking. It had to be, right? 

“But I am giving you my permission,” Derek said, face falling and…yes, that was totally a pout.

“Dude," Stiles shook his head. "There is no universe in which you would give me permission to touch your dick.”

“My-” Derek frowned. “My _dick_?” he gasped, the tips of his ears going pink. “Uh, that’s not what I meant.”

Shit. Of course. _Of course_  it wasn’t. 

“I wanted-” Derek sighed. “Never mind.” He started to turn away, trying to rise on wobbly legs, but Stiles caught him by the wrist, pulling him back down. As much as he wanted this whole night to be over- and preferably for neither of them to remember any of it- he couldn’t let Derek leave while he was this out of it. Werewolf or not, Derek was in no position to protect himself if something decided to attack him. 

“Tell me what you want,” he said. 

There was a beat, and then Derek’s eyes were big again, face soft and trusting. Stiles had to resist the urge to reach out and touch. 

“Can you rub my belly?” he asked, seriously.

 _What?_ “Sorry, dude, I don't think I, uh, heard that right?” 

“Can you rub my belly,” Derek said again, face closing of a little. “But maybe...without making any dog jokes? I just…I feel like I _need_ it and…and I don’t want to ask anyone else.”

Stiles didn’t know whether to laugh or fall under the weight that was his _head exploding_ from the sheer adorableness of this alternative universe situation that had stumbled through his window. “Alright,” he coughed, choosing that over teasing him.

Derek took that as all the confirmation he needed, crawling past Stiles and scrambling up on to his bed. It was the most ungraceful move Stiles had ever seen Derek do. Stiles wanted to take a video and gif the fuck out of it, watch it on a loop. 

Following him onto the bed, he awkwardly tried to find a way to make room for himself beside Derek, but Derek was having none of it, manoeuvring himself so he was situated between Stiles’ suddenly spread legs, pulling his arms down so Stiles’ hands were resting on top of his chest.

“Please?” he asked, tilting his head back, eyes wide and so. Freaking. Endearing. Stiles’ heart jumped in his chest.

“Do you, uh,” Stiles said, lifting one hand up. “Do you want me to do it over your t-shirt or under?” His voice broke on the last word, aware of just how ridiculous that question sounded; equally aware of how one of his hands had started to tremble slightly.

“Under,” Derek breathed, sinking back into Stiles’ body and lifting his t-shirt up, exposing- _fuck,_ Stiles has never seen abs like that in real life. His mouth watered at the sight, sending Stiles' mind places he would deny the next morning, but the way Derek went completely compliant under his touch brought his mind out of the gutter. Derek was asking him for something. Something personal, and Stiles knew it was a big deal; he could see it in the way Derek's eyes were looking at at him, nervous, excited. This was something he needed, apparently, and Stiles wanted to give it to him right. 

Tentatively, he flexed his fingers and spread them out over Derek’s stomach. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to massage or pet him, settling for something in-between the two, rubbing lazy circles into Derek’s skin.

It seemed to be the right thing to do, because Derek sighed happily in response, turning his head and nuzzling his nose into Stiles’ forearm. “You have good arms,” he commented. “They’re more toned than they used to be.” Stiles smiled, feeling his cheeks heating up. “Not that they weren’t nice before,” Derek added, voice wavering. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m only taking notice of you now because you’ve filled out.”

“I don’t think that,” Stiles said, focusing on his breathing, trying not to think about what  _that_ might mean. 

“Don’t think you've filled out, or I take notice of you?” Derek asked.

The question was so sincere that Stiles couldn't help but laugh. “Neither,” he replied.

Derek frowned at that. “Do you want me to take notice of you?” he asked, quietly. So quietly.

Stiles’ hand stopped mid-circle and Derek whined- actually _whined-_ in response. This was not a topic of conversation he had ever wanted to have with Derek. “I think you’re high right now.”

“I know, it’s nice isn’t it? I feel like I can just be myself for a while.”

“Does ‘yourself’ normally think about my arms?” The words were past Stiles’ lips before he had time to consider them. Derek nodded, breathing in deeply, and Stiles watched as his hands dipped and rose with his stomach.

They felt right there.

“I think about your everything,” Derek said, legs parting slightly when Stiles’ fingers accidentally slipped a little lower, grazing past his navel.

“Sorry,” Stiles stuttered, pulling his hands back and sweeping back and forth across the defined muscle there. It was like a perfectly fitting jigsaw.. Stiles wanted to put his tongue on it.

The conversation dropped after that, and Stiles focused on tracing patterns on Derek’s skin, always using one hand to continually rub feather light circles up and down Derek’s sides. He seemed to like it when Stiles did that.

“Stiles?” he said, after several minutes, opening his eyes sleepily.

“Mm?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Stiles paused. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

Derek sighed. “No,” he answered. “I want to take you to dinner, on a…you know.” He shrugged, craning his neck to catch Stiles’ eye. “I also think about that a lot. What it would be like to have you around when we’re not running from something or risking our lives.” He smiled, his mind going somewhere Stiles wished he could see.

“There’s a place Laura and I used to play. I’d like to take you there. You’d like it. We built this den inside a tree. I go out and visit it sometimes, but I don’t like going alone. It would be nice to have company.” He paused. “Your company.”

Stiles blinked, biting down on his lip. What was he supposed to say to _that?_ “If you still want that tomorrow, I would love to,” he said finally, pleased with his answer. He had little doubt Derek would want a get-out-of-jail-free card on that offer tomorrow and at least by acknowledging that now, he was minimising any embarrassment for himself.

“When you turn eighteen, I would also really like to try having sex with you too. If you wanted to that is. Your ass is perfect,” he added the last part somewhat dreamily, causing Stiles to choke.

Derek was so going to rip his throat out in the morning and it wasn’t even going to be because of something he had done! (Well, he supposed his semi-hard on would give Derek a little just cause.)

“Go to sleep, Derek.”

Derek made a small sound. “So, that’s a no to the sex?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, resting one hand over Derek’s heart while the other resumed giving him the belly rub of a lifetime. Let it be known, Stiles Stilinski never did a half-ass job of anything. “Sleep,” he said, and Derek did.

Eventually. After three more lewd comments about his mouth, hands and, weirdly enough, knees.

Stiles had no idea how he lasted the night.

***

Three months later, Stiles celebrated his eighteenth birthday in his bed with his werewolf boyfriend on top of him.

Neither of them had known about the surprise party his Dad had decided to throw for him.

(Scott still has nightmares about Stiles’ O face.)

**Author's Note:**

> My [ tumblr!](http://pale-silver-comb.tumblr.com/)


End file.
